


Turning and Turning (the world goes on)

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Gags, Institutionalized slavery, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:04:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caught after an escape attempt, Jared finds himself a slave in the household of an overlord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s late one Sunday evening when Jared is finally caught.

He knows it’s Sunday because he’s been keeping track of the days since his escape. In the compound, there was no need to mentally mark off the days in his head, because the slaves hadn’t been allowed to forget. In the last eighteen days, he’d kept count by making little scratches on his calf with a small pen knife he’d found on a corpse. 

He feels something almost like relief when the hunting party catches sight of him. He hasn’t eaten anything in two and a half weeks but berries and roots and some stale bread he’d found in an abandoned house. He’s falling to the ground as soon as a loop of rope falls around his arms and tightens, knees hitting stone with a bruising thud.

*

They ride for what seems to be days, although it can’t be more than a few hours later when they reach the outskirts of a town. Jared’s bound facedown over a horse, a thick cloth bag over his head, but he can hear the sound of occasional traffic passing by, car horns and the trundling wheels of heavy vehicles joining the clip clop of the horses’ hooves on the road.

It’s not exactly a surprise to him that they’re entering a town, maybe even a small city. He’s past caring where they are, his limbs sore and aching and his mouth so parched that he’d just about die for a drink of water. Beneath his fatigue is a numb sort of relief at the fact that he’s obviously going to be handed over to someone in authority. He hadn’t thought he’d live to see the day when he was looking forward to being in a cell again, but it’s better than the alternative—to be killed and dumped in a ditch somewhere after he’d outlived his usefulness to his captors. He can’t be sure, but he thought he’d caught sight of an insignia on one of the men’s shoulders before the bag had been thrown over his head. They’re probably a band of bounty hunters. 

The horses draw to a halt and Jared is pulled to the ground, where he lands in a heap. 

Crunching sounds: boots on gravel, he guesses, not really focusing on things. It hurts to even think about moving, so he stays curled up where he is.

“Get him on his feet,” someone says, and he feels a hand clamp around his arm. He staggers to his feet, swaying a little. Someone unties the rope around his neck and yanks the hood off. 

He blinks, trying to get his eyes to adjust to his brightly-lit surroundings. It must be late at night, but it takes him a moment to register that fact because the house he’s standing in front of actually has electricity. 

Standing in front of him is a tall man in a crisp white shirt and well-tailored trousers, his eyes narrowed as he looks Jared up and down. “Have you damaged him?” he asks, glancing at one of Jared’s captors.

“No, Mr Morgan,” the man replies, sounding almost eager. “We know you like them untouched.” There’s a slight leer in his tone, despite the obvious need to please.

Someone’s hand is still around Jared’s arm, gripping like a vise. He’s not sure if he should be grateful for the support or pull away from the relentless grip.

Morgan regards the speaker with a stare. There’s something both merciless and calculating in his eyes, and Jared feels bile rise up in his throat. He doesn’t know if it’s from exhaustion or fear. The hunters have clearly brought him to the house of one of the overlords. If anything, the overlords have a reputation for being even more merciless than the state.

“Pay them.” Morgan turns around to go back into the house. He half-turns his head to throw a look at the man holding Jared up. “Get him into a cell, Jensen.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Jared Tristan Padalecki.” The overlord, Morgan, glances at Jared and looks back at the folder in his hand. “Age eighteen. Place of birth: unknown. Whereabouts of immediate family: unknown.”

Jared says nothing. He’s sitting on a small bunk in a tiny cell, a manacle around one ankle keeping him chained to the floor. The chain is just long enough for him to reach the sink and toilet in the corner.

“An official from the town will be here in the morning to inspect you and confirm your admission into my household,” Morgan continues. “You’ll have to spend the night here, I’m afraid.”

Jared looks up at that, startled by the man’s tone. He sounds almost apologetic.

“If all goes well, you will resume your training as a slave under my ownership. A handler will be assigned to you.”

Jared looks at his feet again, giving the man a brief nod.

“Is this arrangement acceptable to you, Mr Padalecki?”

“Are you kidding me?” The words are out before Jared can help himself. “Since when are slaves asked if they _accept_ anything that’s done to them?”

Morgan’s lips twitch slightly. “I think you’ll find that things are different here from what you’re used to.”

“I’m still a slave.”

“And I am soon to be your new owner. It’s an unfortunate situation, but it’s your best shot at the moment.”

“Fine.” Jared shrugs. “It doesn’t make a difference what I say.”

Morgan regards him for a moment. “I’d be less insolent in front of the inspector tomorrow, if I were you.” He turns on his heel and leaves, the grill door clanging shut behind him.

*

Jared lies down on the thin mattress, which does nothing to stop the cold from seeping through the metal bunk. There’s a threadbare blanket that feels so cold to the touch that he thinks he might get colder if he used it. He closes his eyes, willing his exhaustion to pull him into sleep, but his stomach is aching with hunger and the pain from his bruised body is impossible to ignore.

Minutes after Morgan leaves, he hears footsteps again. He opens his eyes to find a woman outside the cell, holding a basket and wearing a smile.

“Hi, Jared. I’m Samantha Smith. Jeff’s partner.”

Jared sits up, unwilling to return the smile. He assumes ‘Jeff’ is Overlord Morgan.

The woman—lady, really, if the quality of her peasant-style blouse and corduroy jeans is anything to go by—unlocks the door and steps in. “You must be hungry.”

Jared nods. Samantha sets the basket down beside him. “There’s also a bottle of salve in there. For your wounds. I’m sorry we can’t take better care of your injuries tonight, but the rules expressly forbid that… prisoners be given more medical care than strictly necessary.”

A heavenly smell drifts out of the basket, but Jared is so stunned by Samantha’s words and attitude that he stares at her for a moment. “Are you people for real?”

She gives him a small smile. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. We’ll talk after your inspection tomorrow, all right? Try to get some rest if you can.” She nods toward the basket. “There’s a regulation outfit for you. Please put it on before the morning.”

Jared tears into the food as soon as she leaves. There’s warm, crusty bread and even a small pat of butter, along with a thick, savory stew, an apple, a bar of chocolate, and a bottle of cool water that tastes absolutely divine. He finishes two-thirds of it in a few large gulps, and it's like nectar to his parched throat. He hasn’t seen chocolate or butter in over two years. He devours half the chocolate first, and then inhales half the bowl of stew before slowing down and finishing the rest with the buttered bread. He saves the apple for later. These people might have fed him a more-than-decent meal, but he isn’t sure if they’re going to follow the protocol of giving slaves no more than a single meal a day. If so, it’s going to be a while before he’s fed again.

Using the salve will mean taking his jeans off to get to his bruised knees, and Jared knows better than to take his clothes off when he’s essentially defenseless. He’s not going to put the slave shift on until he absolutely has to.

*

“Padalecki.” Jared jolts awake as a baton is rapped against the bars of his cell. The cold, mechanical voice is all too familiar. A handler.

“Get changed. Now,” the man says. He’s wearing a regulation outfit: a black bodysuit, complete with a hood with dark, glass-covered slits for eyes. There’s also a regulation chip at the throat of the mask, enabling voice distortion. 

Jared springs to his feet, years of conditioning directing his instant obedience. “My ankle,” he says, gesturing to the chain.

The handler takes out a ring of keys and unlocks the door. Jared’s heart skips a beat. If he’s going to be unchained, he could take this guy out and make a run for it. It’s unlikely that he can take on a trained handler in his weakened state, but he can try.

A second later, he discards the idea. He’s in the dungeon, and there are likely a dozen more handlers in the house, and even more security guards. He’d never even make it to the front door, and even if he did, no one would hesitate for a second to kill a slave trying to escape. There are plenty more where Jared came from.

The handler locks the door behind him and gestures for Jared to lie down. Jared takes the required position: flat on his stomach, fingers locked behind his head. The man’s hand briefly touches his ankle, and then the manacle is off.

The handler steps back, and Jared gets to his feet. He quickly strips off his jeans and t-shirt, and then pulls the shapeless slave shift—essentially no more than a long shirt—over himself before stepping out of his briefs. The handler wordlessly holds out a gloved hand, and Jared hands his clothes over, knowing he’ll never see them again. He’d got them from an abandoned house after his escape, so they weren’t really his, but it had been good to wear actual clothes again.

The handler takes the clothes silently, and then picks up the basket. He leaves without a word, locking the door behind him.

It’s after he’s left that Jared realizes he’d left his apple in the basket. He sinks to the floor, leaning back against the stone wall.

*

It’s almost an hour later that the inspection party arrives. There’s a man with a handlebar mustache who’s obviously the official from the town, since he’s wearing a black suit, tie and bowler hat. The outfit always reminds Jared of Thompson and Thomson. It’s one of the small ways in which the kids at the compound had kept themselves entertained, relating things from their prison with the lives they’d known before they were imprisoned.

“Padalecki,” the inspector says, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. “You are charged with breaking out of your assigned facility and assaulting two senior officers.” He exchanges a look with Morgan, who’s standing silently beside him. “Your sentence will be determined by the town court judge in two days. Since Overlord Morgan now has ownership of you, your punishment will be implemented by him. Remove your clothing and assume the required position.”

Jared’s been dreading this moment, but there’s nothing for it. He doesn’t look at Morgan and the silent, black-clad handler standing behind him as he pulls off his shift and kneels, pressing his forehead to the floor and putting his hands behind his head. He loathes this position with every fiber of his being: there’s very little that’s less humiliating than being naked and kneeling ass-up.

The inspector pulls at the chain around Jared’s ankle, dragging his legs further apart. “Two feet,” he snaps. Jared’s not sure if he’s allowed to talk, so he says nothing. There should be two feet between a slave’s knees at all times when he or she is in this position.

“You’ll have your hands full with this bitch, Morgan,” the man says carelessly. Without a warning, a dry, gloved finger is pushed roughly into Jared’s asshole, and he bites back a cry. He’s not going to give this bastard the satisfaction of hearing him in pain. “He seems to have managed to stay intact, at least.” The man withdraws his finger and straightens up.

“The next inspection will be in six weeks. Enjoy your new toy, Morgan.”


	3. Chapter 3

Morgan and the inspector leave but the handler stays behind, stiff as a statue as Jared picks himself off his bruised knees and pulls his shift back on. He sits down at the edge of his bunk and drops his head in his hands, his face burning with humiliation. 

“Padalecki,” the mechanical voice says, and Jared looks up.

The handler reaches into his pocket, pulls out an apple, and tosses it at Jared. He catches it one-handed against his chest, mute with surprise.

Samantha appears in the doorway, worry creasing her forehead. “Are you all right, Jared?” She sits down beside him, smoothing his bangs away from his face.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

She gives him a small smile. “We’ll get you a proper breakfast later, when the inspector leaves.” She glances at the handler. “You’re needed upstairs, 421.”

The man nods briefly, and leaves.

“Let’s have a look at your knees,” Samantha says, and Jared lets her push his shift up his thighs. She lets out a hiss of sympathy. “You didn’t use the salve.”

Jared says nothing, but he bites into his apple, too hungry to ignore it any longer. Samantha picks up the small jar of ointment and tends to his wounds wordlessly.

 

*

 

About an hour later, the silent handler returns to escort Jared upstairs. Despite himself, Jared looks around with curiosity as he’s led through the house. It’s old but well-maintained, all polished banisters and gleaming wooden floors. Rich, dark curtains hang from the windows, and the furniture, like the house itself, looks old but well cared for—cleaned and polished by slaves, most likely.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Jared lengthens his stride to walk beside the handler.

The man says nothing, as expected. They stop beside a large oak door, and the handler gestures for Jared to go in.

Jared knocks on the door, and Morgan’s voice responds. “Come in.”

The handler remains outside, shutting the door behind Jared as he steps in.

Morgan is sitting behind a large desk littered with papers and files, with a state-of-the-art comm unit at one corner. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the sofa across the room. The small table in front of it is loaded with food.

“I thought we could talk while we eat. I’m famished, how about you?” Morgan gestures to the food again. “Help yourself, Jared. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Jared doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits down on the sofa, marveling at its softness, and picks up a warm buttered roll. There’s also a plate of hard-boiled eggs, already cut in half and salted and peppered, and a bowl of marmalade as well as a plate piled high with sliced fruit.

There’s a rustle of papers as Morgan closes his file and pushes it aside, standing up. “Coffee?” he asks, moving to the table. “Or would you prefer juice?”

“Uh, coffee, please. Sir.”

“Call me Jeff. Everyone else does.” Morgan pours out two cups of coffee. “Cream and sugar?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Something wrong?” Morgan nods to the roll in Jared’s hand. “You aren’t eating.”

“It’s just…”

“What?” Morgan sits down in an armchair, taking a sip of his coffee and letting out a pleased sigh. “Tell me, Jared. I won’t bite.”

“I haven’t seen this kind of food in years. That’s all.”

Morgan’s face darkens, and he holds Jared’s gaze. “That’s going to change now. You’re malnourished and seriously underweight. Eat,” he says again, pushing the plate of eggs toward Jared.

Jared doesn’t move. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch, Jared.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jared says bluntly. He doesn’t care if he gets punished for it; he’s not going to let himself get fattened up like a lamb for slaughter.

A flicker of annoyance crosses Morgan’s face. “Were you this recalcitrant at the compound you escaped from?”

“Yeah, and I have the whip marks to prove it. Would you like to see them?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Morgan’s face is unreadable. “I’d suggest you eat. Keep your strength up.”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“You’ll stay here, of course. For the time being.” Morgan sounds surprised. 

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes to complete your training.” Jared doesn’t respond, and Morgan’s tone becomes a little more gentle. “That’s why you ran away, wasn’t it? Because you were going to turn eighteen?”

“I… yes.” There’s no point lying, when Morgan’s already figured it out.

“I’m afraid there’s no way around it, Jared. Your training as a body slave will have to be carried out.”

“I don’t want that. I—please, sir.” Jared hates the pleading tone that enters his voice, but the words are out before he can hold them back.

“I’m sorry, Jared. There will be routine inspections, and if the council believes you aren’t being trained, they’ll take you away.”

“But—”

“All I can promise you is that you will not be taken advantage of by anyone in this house.” Morgan gets to his feet and rests a hand briefly on Jared’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast.”

Jared stares glumly at the food, but feels better about eating once Morgan has left the room. He finishes his coffee, two rolls, and a couple of eggs, and has begun working on the fruit when the door opens again.

“Jared?” It’s a guy who’s about a few years older than Jared. He’s wearing jeans, a faded old classic rock t-shirt, and wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m Ross. Samantha asked me to show you around.” 

He holds out his hand, and Jared takes it. “Hi.” The guy’s handshake is warm and firm, his eyes a vivid green.

“Hi back,” Ross grins, gesturing at the food. “You about done?”

“Um, yeah.”

“C’mon, then.” Ross claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll show you to your room. Bet you’re dying for a shower, huh?”

 

*

 

Jared has a room. He’s not really sure he believes it until Ross leads him to a second-floor room. It has a small but comfortable-looking single bed, and a desk with an empty bookshelf beside it.

“No TV, I’m afraid.” Ross throws the windows open, letting the sunlight in. There’s a great view of the garden and driveway. “Jeff seriously thinks it dumbs people down. There’s one in the living room, though.” He glances at Jared. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Jared shakes himself out of his stupor. “No, it’s just… I didn’t expect this.”

“Oh.” Understanding flickers across Ross’s face. “Sorry, I should’ve known. I was pretty stunned too, when I first arrived here.”

“What d’you mean?” Surely Ross isn’t a slave, not with his attitude and the way he’s dressed. “You’re not like me.”

“We’re probably more alike than you could imagine, Jared.” Ross smiles, and despite himself, Jared can’t help but notice how his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. The guy’s almost ridiculously hot.


	4. Chapter 4

In the next three days, Jared almost gets used to the comfortable routine he’s given. He goes down to the dining room at mealtimes, where food is already on the table. He eats alone on most occasions, but sometimes he’s joined by either Samantha or Jeff. Ross usually makes an appearance too, although he doesn’t seem to want to sit at the table, usually grabbing a sandwich and giving Jared a grin before heading back to do whatever it is that he does. 

He doesn’t meet anyone else, although there must be other people in the household: handlers, guards and domestic staff. He guesses that everyone has orders not to talk to the slaves, but it’s a little disconcerting to be aware of other presences in the mansion while not actually meeting too many other people. Still, his situation is so much better than it was at the slave compound that he doesn’t complain, or ask too many questions.

Samantha and Jeff usually make a bit of small talk with him, asking him a few routine things such as how far his education has progressed. Samantha tells him that their resident tutor is away at present, but that he’ll be given daily lessons once she returns. Between mealtimes, Jared has free access to the library and gym, and he spends several hours a day in both places. 

The gym has state-of-the-art equipment, and includes a fairly large swimming pool. Jared is doing a few laps one afternoon before lunch when he senses someone else in the room. He pushes his wet hair out of his eyes and looks around, catching sight of the silent, black-clad handler standing just inside the doorway.

“Hi,” he says after a moment of silence. Conscious about being dressed only in his swim trunks, he slides a little further into the water, leaving only his head exposed.

The man gives him a nod. “Your training will begin after lunch,” he says.

Jared’s stomach plummets. The man leaves before he can respond.

 

*

 

Surprisingly, Ross is sitting at the dining table for once when Jared heads there at lunch-time. He gives Jared a friendly wave, his mouth full.

Jared gives him a small smile, pulling a plate toward himself and taking a salami roll. He takes a bite, and the food feels so dry in his mouth that he has to wash it down with a gulp of water.

“How’s it going?” Ross asks. They haven’t really talked since the day Ross showed him his room.

Jared shrugs. “OK, I guess.”

“You don’t look so good,” Ross observes, taking another bite of his roll. He looks pretty good himself, Jared notes. He’s wearing dark, comfortable-looking slacks and a navy blue button-down that’s rolled up to his elbows, and his gaze is curious and friendly behind his glasses.

“Got my first training session today,” Jared confesses, looking down at his barely-touched roll.

“I heard.” Ross sounds sympathetic. “But you must’ve had training before, right? At the… institution you were in?”

“Not…” Jared swallows. “Not, you know. As a body slave.”

“Oh. Did you just turn eighteen?”

“Last week.” He’d been on the run and hadn’t even realized it was his birthday until he’d found a tree to sleep in that night, lashing himself to a thick branch with his scarf so he wouldn’t fall off during the night.

Ross looks as if he’s going to say something in response, but Samantha comes in just then, taking a seat at the table and helping herself to some egg salad. Jared smiles in response to her greeting and then tunes the conversation out as she and Ross start talking about some research that he’s apparently doing. He can barely eat for nerves.

Ross excuses himself after a few minutes, and Samantha turns to Jared after Ross leaves the room. “You don’t seem to be eating much,” she says gently.

“I’m, uh. Not that hungry.”

She reaches over to squeeze his hand. “It’s okay to be scared, Jared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jared says, annoyed. 

Samantha doesn’t appear to take offense at his tone. “I know this is unfair, but we have no choice but to put you through your training. If the state believes that we’re cutting you any slack, you’ll be taken back to a compound. And not the same one you escaped from, either, but a training facility meant for body slaves. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Jared doesn’t look at her.

“Trust me when I say that this is your best option right now, Jared.” She gives him a shrewd look, almost as though she can read what’s running through his mind right now: the thought that escaping, being _free_ , is what his best option looks like to him. He nods, his gaze fixed on his plate.

“421 is one of the best handlers I know,” Samantha says, pushing her plate away and getting to her feet. “Do try to cooperate with him, Jared.” She puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it briefly. “As I said, it’s in your best interests.”

 

*

 

By the time he goes down to the training room in the basement, Jared is as angry as he is nervous. Part of him knows that whatever is done to him in that room will probably be a whole lot better than the way he’d be treated at a slave compound, but the fiercely independent and rebellious part of him balks at what’s coming.

He knocks at the door. There’s no response, so he turns the handle and goes in.

There’s no one else there. Jared sucks in his breath at the sight of the bondage table in the center of the room. It’s long and broad, padded with black Rexene and fitted with thick straps. Off to one side, a similarly padded mattress rests on the floor. The opposite side of the room has a small desk with a couple of chairs. The room looks completely sterile, and smells faintly of disinfectant. It’s not an unpleasant smell, but it makes Jared want to throw up what little he had eaten at lunch.

He hears the door open, and turns around. The handler comes in, dressed exactly as before. He gives Jared a brief nod, and then heads to the desk and takes the chair behind it. He gestures to the chair opposite his, and Jared sits down.

“Good afternoon, Jared.” The voice distortion function of the regulation outfit has been enabled, and the handler sounds as cold and mechanical as the rest of the room. Jared wonders briefly if Morgan himself is his handler; the outfit is designed to make its wearer completely anonymous, and Jared isn't sure if he's been seeing the same handler, or multiple ones. It’s against state regulations for handlers’ identities to be revealed, so he doesn’t ask, and isn’t really comforted at the thought that the Overlord may be seeing personally to his training.

The handler opens a drawer and takes out a pamphlet. “Please read through this.” He slides it across the desk.

Jared picks it up. It’s an official guide to slave training, and clinically outlines the various aspects of the process. There are three sections, covering bondage, submission, and discipline. 

“Any questions?” the handler asks when Jared looks up. 

“No, Sir.” He knows that handlers are to be addressed as ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’, with ‘Master’ and ‘Mistress’ being reserved for a slave’s eventual owner.

The handler watches him for a moment. Jared stares back defiantly, silently daring the man to comment on Jared’s apparent lack of curiosity about what’s going to be done to him.

“Are you sure?” ‘421’ says.

“What would you like me to ask, Sir?” Jared says, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice. “About all the ways I’ll be tortured in this room? Or about how to prepare myself best for a whole fucking life of being chained and used?” He throws the pamphlet down on the desk, only just managing to keep from tossing it at the handler’s masked face.

After a moment’s silence, the handler gets to his feet. He’s close to Jared’s height, but broader and far more muscled. Jared has no doubt that he’s going to be severely punished in a minute, but can’t help feeling a fierce satisfaction at having spoken his mind.

“Get up and strip.” The handler doesn’t raise his voice, but the command is cold and precise.

Jared gets to his feet, if only because it’s disconcerting to have the man looming over him. It’s a kind of relief, anyway, to know that they’re done with the false niceties. 

He yanks his t-shirt off and tosses it on to the chair he’d been sitting on.

“Fold each item of clothing as you remove it.” 

Biting back a retort, Jared does as asked. He folds his shirt and replaces it on the chair, and then removes his sneakers and socks before undoing his belt and taking off his jeans. He folds them and places them on the chair. But then he hesitates, horribly reluctant to remove his briefs.

“You can keep those on for now.” The clipped words send ridiculous amounts of relief rushing through Jared, although he knows that his final shred of dignity won’t remain for long.

“Get on the table. On your hands and knees.”

Again, Jared obeys silently. The man doesn’t sound pissed off, but Jared knows that handlers are trained not to reveal any emotion. He’s heard enough horror stories about how clinically cruel they can be.

The handler moves to a cabinet next to the desk, and comes over to the table with several coils of black rope. He places them on the table in front of Jared. Picking up a length of rope, he uncoils it and loops it around Jared’s waist, just above the elastic band of his black underwear. The first touch of the handler’s black gloves against his bare skin gives Jared goosebumps, and he grits his teeth.

“Spread your legs.”

Jared pulls his knees apart, mentally cursing the man to hell and back.

The handler works swiftly and efficiently. Two strands of rope are pulled down between Jared’s legs to frame his crotch, and then pulled taut and knotted just behind his balls. The double strand is then pulled up into the crack of his ass and bound to the rope around Jared’s waist, forming a snug, effective crotchrope. The rope along his ass pushes the thin cloth of his underwear right over his hole, rubbing against it at the slightest movement, and Jared resolves to stay very still.

In minutes, Jared is very efficiently hogtied. A length of rope is looped around his neck—snug, but not tight enough to make breathing difficult—and forces him to keep his head up to prevent it from tightening. It’s also used to bind his arms behind his back, and any attempt to move his arms also pulls on the rope, forcing him to remain still. His legs are bound at thighs, knees, calves and ankles with several coils of rope, and then bent double so that his ankles can be secured to his wrists.

The handler goes back to the cabinet, and returns with a ball-gag. Jared tries instinctively to move his head away, but gasps as the movement tugs at the rope around his neck, cutting off his air. The handler takes his chin and easily moves his head back into position, pressing the large rubber ball against Jared’s mouth until he has no choice but to take it between his lips. It fills his mouth almost completely, forcing his lips obscenely wide. He starts to drool almost immediately, his cheeks burning with humiliation as the straps of the gag are buckled securely behind his head. 

When the handler steps away and returns with a faux-leather hood, Jared’s eyes widen in panic. He’s taken a lot of corporal punishment before, but sight deprivation always sends him into full panic mode. He shakes his head frantically, ignoring the way the rope looped around his throat almost chokes him, but his desperate attempts to protest only come out as muffled moans through his gag.

Working clinically, the handler slips the hood over Jared’s head. The only openings it has are tiny holes for Jared’s nostrils, and as the back of the hood is zipped up, the material draws tight over his head, molding itself to the shape of Jared’s skull. Jared’s world goes completely dark and he hyperventilates, writhing as much as his bondage allows, involuntary tears wetting the inside of his hood and making it even more uncomfortable.

The handler places a hand at the top of Jared’s spine. “Stop struggling. You will hurt yourself.”

Jared tries to force himself to breathe through his nose, calming a little at the thought that the purpose of this exercise is not to hurt him. The handler’s gloved hand on his back offers little comfort, but Jared tries to use the clinical touch to ground himself. The hand strokes down his spine, almost like a gesture one would use with a spooked animal. The man repeats the movement slowly until it turns rhythmic, and Jared eventually stops struggling, still breathing noisily through the tiny openings in his hood.

“Good.” The handler moves away. “You will stay in this position for one hour. That will be all for today.”

An hour. The sensation of sheer panic is still just under Jared’s skin, waiting to fight its way back out, and he lets out a small sound of distress. He’s heard of predicament bondage and knows that this is far from the worst that it can get, but his jaws are already stiff from being forced open and his neck is uncomfortable from being forced to hold his head up. He tries to focus on breathing in and out in slow, measured breaths, his entire being fixated on his situation. He squeezes his eyes shut behind his tight hood, trying to pretend that there’s nothing over his face, tricking his mind into believing that there’s nothing depriving him of sight. It works to an extent, and he’s able to calm himself enough to keep from struggling.

It’s a few minutes before he realizes that he’s hard, his cock straining against his underwear as it lies trapped between his body and the bondage table. He recalls hearing somewhere that a noose around the neck can cause an erection, and wonders briefly if the rope around his throat is responsible for his involuntary arousal. Whatever the reason, it provides a not unwelcome distraction from his predicament. He wriggles a little against the table, and the movement sends a brief thrum of pleasure through his cock. He can’t actively hump the table, not only because too much movement would end up choking him, but also because he hasn’t been given permission, and he’s sure the handler is still in the room, watching him. Being punished this way is bad enough; the thought of further punishment is unbearable at the moment. 

He shifts slightly from time to time, trying to clear his mind of everything but his arousal. By the time his sixty minutes are up, his cock is almost throbbing in its need for relief, and he lets out an involuntary whimper as the handler returns and cups his chin again, holding his head in place as he unzips the hood with his other hand.

Jared’s lips and chin are soaked with drool, his eyelashes clumped with the remains of his tears. The handler tosses the hood on to the desk and unbuckles the gag before using a towel to swiftly wipe Jared’s face.

The gloved hand grips his chin again, tilting Jared’s face up until he’s forced to look into the hander’s glass-covered eyes. “You will thank me after every session.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Jared’s voice is barely more than a croak, his jaw still stiff. 

The hand doesn’t release him. “What are you thanking me for, slave?”

“For. For punishing me, Sir.”

“Incorrect. What are you thanking me for, slave?”

Jared wracks his brains, willing to say anything to be set loose. “For… teaching me a lesson, Sir.”

“What lesson have you learned, boy?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Sir.” Jared is close to tears now, his entire body stiff and uncomfortable, his cock still painfully hard.

The handler releases his grip on Jared’s chin. “I’ll expect an answer in your next session.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jared manages, exhausted.


	5. Chapter 5

“Jared?” A hand pats his face lightly, and Jared snaps out of his almost-doze with a start.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ross says. He’s kneeling beside the mattress Jared’s lying on. The handler had untied him and guided him to the bed in the corner with a firm hand, leaving Jared to collapse on to it before leaving.

“Water?” Ross continues, offering Jared a glass.

“Thanks.” Jared sits up and gulps it down.

“Easy,” Ross says, sounding amused. “You’ll choke.”

“You try being gagged for an hour,” Jared says, working his jaw.

“I know the feeling,” Ross says simply. Jared glances up at him. His green eyes are as friendly as ever behind their gold-rimmed glasses, but there’s something unreadable about the man. This isn’t the first time Jared has gotten the impression that Ross used to be a slave himself, but that doesn’t make much sense because a slave’s status is pretty much for life.

“Won’t you get into trouble for being here?” he asks instead.

“Nah, Jeff said I could assist you after your sessions. Handlers aren’t exactly supposed to, uh, engage in aftercare.”

Jared bites back a retort. “Aftercare” makes it sound as if he’s participating in voluntary S&M. “Um, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo.” Ross straightens and gives him a hand up.

 

*

 

The next morning, Jared is introduced to his tutor. Danneel Harris is a college graduate who earns her living by private tutoring, since most schools and colleges were shut down long ago. The only people who can afford an education are the wealthy.

Jared’s never going to admit it, but he’s actually pretty happy to resume learning. He’d been sixteen when he’d last sat in a classroom and he has a lot of catching up to do, but Danneel seems pleased with his progress after a couple of sessions. He’s completely forgotten most of what he learned in history and science, but finds it easy to remember math and literature, and surprises himself by enjoying his trigonometry homework and the novel his teacher has asked him to read.

A couple of times, he catches sight of uniformed handlers: once, two of them are in Jeff’s study, deep in discussion with him, and Jared catches a glimpse of them as he’s passing by the room. On another occasion, he sees a female handler with a slave who must be even younger than Jared. This scene is more intimate than the one in Jeff’s study: the handler and her ward are sitting on the living room sofa, talking to Samantha. Jared can’t help but notice the way the young slave is curled against her handler. The handler’s arm is around her shoulders.

“Jared,” Samantha says with a smile, noticing him.

“Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all. Come say hello to Genevieve. She’s going to be staying with us for a while. This is her handler, 693.”

Jared says a quick hello and excuses himself, continuing on his path to the library. He reads another couple of chapters of his assigned book, _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , before his stomach starts to rumble. 

Dinner that night is a fairly crowded affair, at least by the standards of Morgan’s household. The overlord himself is not present, and Jared is relieved, because there’s something about the man that makes him wary. Samantha chats pleasantly with Danneel, who has apparently decided to stay the night, and Ross joins in when he isn’t focusing on his food. 

“Excuse us, boys,” Samantha says after dinner, nodding toward Danneel. “We have some things to discuss with Jeff.”

Left with Ross, Jared follows the older man’s lead and helps himself to a second piece of apple pie.

“Something on your mind?” Ross asks, digging into his second helping. “You seem a bit quiet.”

“No, it’s just… I was wondering where Genevieve was.”

“Probably tired out. Guess she had a long trip here.” Ross gives him a look. “Why, you interested?”

“No.” Jared flushes. “I was just… curious, I guess. About the way she was with her handler.”

“Yeah?” Ross looks interested, his gaze on Jared’s face. “How do you mean?”

“She was… I dunno, it was just weird. They seemed pretty close.”

“Why’s that weird?”

“My handler… he’s kind of really… objective. I guess.”

Ross lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s a polite way of saying he’s cruel, right? I guess Genevieve got lucky.”


	6. Chapter 6

To say that Jared isn’t looking forward to his next session in the training room is an understatement, but there’s no getting away from it. After a study session with Danneel that involves a pretty interesting discussion on the way Huck treats Jim, he skips lunch in favor of a shower and then heads down to the basement.

His handler is already there, seated in the chair behind the desk.

“I… uh. I’m sorry I’m late.”

The handler gestures to the empty chair, and Jared sits down. “You aren’t late. I was early.”

Not sure what to say in response, Jared stays silent.

“Do you have an answer for me?”

“I—I’m not sure, Sir.”

“It doesn’t matter. What lesson did you learn?”

“Er… not to be rude?”

“Did you really learn that?” The disguised, mechanized voice sounds almost amused. “I would think a lifetime of punishment wouldn’t be enough to teach you that particular lesson. Try again.”

“Is there… will I be punished for a wrong answer?”

“I haven’t punished you for that lie you just told, slave. Have I?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then attempt a more honest answer.”

Jared thinks back to his previous session: the discomfort of the ropes, the predicament of not being able to breathe when he tried to shift, the humiliation of the helpless arousal he’d felt. “I learned… that my body is not mine to control.”

There’s silence for a moment. “Did you not learn that at the compound you were in?” the handler asks then.

“I… I guess so. But not like this. I was never trained in… to be, I mean… for sex.”

Another moment of silence, while he’s surveyed thoughtfully from behind glass-covered eyes. “I see.” The handler gets up in a brisk movement. “Let’s get started. Strip.”

When Jared has stripped down to his underwear—he remembers to fold his clothes up neatly without being asked to—the handler asks him to kneel on the padded table. A studded black faux-leather collar is fastened around his neck, and the chain attached to it is hooked to the ceiling. Jared’s beginning to think that his handler apparently has a real fetish for choking people. His hands are cuffed behind him, his legs held apart by a sturdy spreader bar strapped to his ankles.

The handler moves to the cupboard and returns with a thin wooden cane. “I see you’ve had corporal punishment before.” The scars on Jared’s back are unmistakable.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m going to give you ten strokes with the cane.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The handler moves behind him. The first blow lands squarely across Jared’s ass cheeks, making him yelp at the suddenness of it.

“Did that hurt, slave?”

“No, Sir.”

The second blow catches Jared on the back of his left thigh. More prepared this time, he grits his teeth and stays silent. Another blow, this time to the back of his right thigh, and Jared jerks forward in his bonds, gasping as the collar tightens around his throat. The handler makes no move to help him, and Jared shifts back into his original position. Two more strikes against his ass, loud as pistol shots in the silence of the room. Sweat breaks out on Jared’s forehead.

Five more to go. The handler hooks the thumbs of his gloved hands into the waist of Jared’s briefs, and pulls them down to his knees. The action is swift and efficient, and Jared doesn’t have time to think about just how vulnerable he is in this position when the cane comes down again, against his bare ass this time. He cries out with pain, unable to control himself. The next four blows come in quick succession, all against his buttocks. He hasn’t been able to stop himself from jerking forward to escape the blows and is red-faced and struggling, barely able to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry. Please stop. Please.”

“Calm yourself,” the man says sharply. He reaches up to loosen the chain a little. “Lie down.”

Jared obeys, lying down on his front, turning his face to the side, his wet cheek pressed against the table. His wrists are still bound behind him, his legs held apart. He’s never felt more defenseless in his life. 

Clinical hands grasp the cheeks of his ass and pull them apart, and Jared chokes back a sob. The bastard. The fucking bastard. If he’d only done this at the start of the session, Jared would’ve been more prepared for it, but he’d been shrewd enough to take down Jared’s defenses first.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No, Sir.” He tries to sound as submissive as possible, hoping against hope that the sexual aspect of his torture will be more bearable than the discipline.

“Have you been fucked?”

“I… I had sex with a girl.”

“How many times?”

“Once.”

“Was it consensual?”

“Yes, Sir.” 

“You are aware that your future owner could be either a woman or a man?”

“I—Yes, Sir.”

“Since both male and female slave-owners use male slaves anally, you will be trained accordingly.”

Jared can’t bring himself to respond to that, but the handler doesn’t seem to expect an answer. He feels a cool liquid being dribbled over his ass cheeks and crack, and the substance is briskly rubbed into the welts on his ass and thighs. To his surprise, he finds the pain from his smarting skin easing a little. Then the gel is smeared thoroughly into his ass crack and over his hole, and he sucks in his breath as a fingertip eases its way inside him. He clenches his hole involuntarily.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jared squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe as the finger goes in deeper. It withdraws a little and then pushes back in, and he’s slowly finger-fucked with an in-and-out motion. After a minute, the finger goes in deep enough to brush against his prostate, and Jared gasps at the sudden, unexpected pleasure of it, hips bucking back reflexively.

“Good,” his handler says, beginning a slow, thorough massage of his supersensitive bundle of nerves. “How does this feel?” he asks after a few minutes.

“It—it feels good, Sir,” Jared says. He’s been squirming, impaled on the skilled finger, breathing through his mouth.

“Good,” the man says again. “The more you enjoy this, the better it will be for you.”

 _Fuck you_ , Jared thinks, gritting his teeth. Part of him prefers to be whipped than to be forced to enjoy being raped. His cock is hard under him, his writhing only serving to increase his unwanted arousal.

“Do you want to come, slave?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The finger is withdrawn, and the handler holds up a medium-sized plug in front of Jared’s face. “You will wear this for an hour, and then you may come.”

Jared has to bite his lip to keep from protesting. The plug is slid into him, its tip pushing against his prostate and its flared base keeping it locked snugly inside Jared’s rectum. He pushes down against the mattress, involuntarily seeking friction, and finds himself grasped by the hips and turned over, his bound wrists trapped beneath his body.

He doesn’t protest when the ball-gag is pressed to his lips, parting them to let the hard rubber in. He expects to be hooded and left alone as he was the previous time, but the handler doesn’t leave him. Instead, his gloved, lube-slicked fingers slide over Jared’s nipples, swiftly arousing them into hard little peaks. Jared squirms under the touch, each movement making him feel as though he’s being fucked by the plug embedded deep inside him. Just when he feels he can’t take it anymore, tweezer-clamps are attached to both his nipples, making him cry out with pain beneath his gag.

The handler then turns his attention to Jared’s erection, which has flagged during the application of the clamps. Breathing heavily through his nose, Jared watches with helpless fascination as a gloved hand touches him lightly, stroking up and down the length of his cock. The man’s other hand begins to lightly massage his balls, and Jared humps up into the clever hands, whimpering. 

“You see, slave? It’s not difficult to forget yourself, to allow yourself to want.”

Hatred for this cold, clinical treatment wars with the mindless need to come, and Jared shuts his eyes, unable to look up into the masked face of his torturer anymore. He’s edged for a few more minutes, growing more and more desperate, and is then cock-ringed and left to squirm.

 

*

 

Jared awakes alone on the mattress. He sits up, shivering. He’s still naked and covered with lube and his own come, and the air-conditioning in the room is far too cold. When his hour was up, the handler had edged him for a few more minutes, the mechanical voice telling him that it was best for him if he enjoyed his training, before he’d let Jared come. 

The door opens and Ross comes in. “Shit,” he says softly, seeing Jared on the floor, his arms wrapped around himself.

Jared’s too far gone to be embarrassed about being naked. Ross quickly throws a blanket around his shoulders. “Hey, are you OK?”

Jared nods, but he can’t seem to stop shivering. He leans against Ross, instinctively seeking warmth, and Ross’s arms go around him. 

“It’s all right,” Ross says, holding him close, and it’s only when he feels wetness on Ross’s shirt that Jared realizes he’s crying.


	7. Chapter 7

“Jared,” Danneel says a little sharply, and Jared realizes that it’s probably not the first time she’s said his name.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You were miles away.” Danneel’s expression softens a little. “Are you OK, Jared?”

Jared nods, looking down at his open book. 

Danneel closes her own copy of the textbook with a sigh. “Do you have a training session after your class?”

Jared’s head jerks up. “How did you--?” 

“I know that look.” Danneel gives him a small smile. “Maybe you and Gen should go outside and get some fresh air before lunch. Shoot some hoops. What do you say?” She turns to the girl sitting next to Jared.

Genevieve nods. In a few minutes, Jared and Genevieve are outside in the compound, two large dogs prancing about at their heels. When Jared had first seen the dogs, he’d been afraid that they were there for security, and he’d been wary of them, even though he loves dogs. He’d soon found out that the dogs were little more than overgrown puppies, deliriously happy when they got their tummies rubbed or their ears scratched. There are even a few cats in the house, who give the dogs haughty looks and sun themselves on walls and window-sills.

Genevieve is friendly, and seems to have settled down in the week that she’s been part of the household. “Do you know who your handler is?” she asks Jared in a low voice as they bounce a basketball around.

Jared’s so startled by her question that he misses his shot. The ball bounces off the rim of the hoop. “I—no. Do you?”

Genevieve nods. “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell anyone, but it’s Danneel.”

“Danneel is…” Jared has to think for a moment before he remembers. “693? The handler who was with you when we first met?”

Genevieve nods. “She’s… she’s amazing. She was my tutor at the compound where I was being held before I was sent here. I think she’s the one who made sure that I wasn’t sent anywhere else.”

“Danneel works at a compound?” The information sends an unpleasant prickle down Jared’s spine.

“Not anymore. She said she used to because she needed the money, but she couldn’t do it anymore.”

“But if… If she’s a handler, then she’s still working for the state, right?”

Genevieve bites her lip, her voice even lower when she speaks again. “I don’t think all handlers are bad people, Jared. I think… I think she’s working with Jeff. I think he has plans to help us escape before they sell us to some slave-owner.”

 

*

 

Jared tosses in bed that night, mulling over what Gen’s told him. It’s obvious enough that Jeff Morgan and Samantha Smith aren’t exactly toeing the line when it comes to state regulations for the treatment of slaves, but setting slaves free is another thing entirely. The fact that his training is being carried out strictly according to regulations makes it kind of hard to believe that Samantha and Jeff have some secret benevolent plan to help their slaves escape. Jared knows from his experience in the compound that people are often not what they appear to be, and he really has no handle on the Morgans yet.

And then there’s also the matter of their tutor being Genevieve’s handler. It might be pointless to try to guess who his handler is, but Jared can’t help wondering, and not for the first time, if it’s Jeffrey Morgan himself. The only other man who seems to live in the house is Ross, whose gentle, bookish ways make him an unlikely candidate for a handler.

 

*

 

Jared’s next training session is his worst yet.

He’s sitting in his usual chair across the desk from the handler. So far, the man hasn’t said anything, but merely gestured to Jared to take his seat. 

Jared is just beginning to squirm a bit in his chair when the handler opens a drawer and pulls out a small bottle made of clear plastic. It’s filled with long white pills.

“Do you know what these are, slave?” asks the cold, mechanical voice.

“I think so, Sir.” Jared’s blood has already run cold at the sight of the pills. “They… I think they’re used to retcon people.”

“Do you know why owners use these on their slaves?”

“To… to make them forget things.”

“Forget what? Be more specific.”

“I… I’m not sure, Sir.”

“One of these pills can take away up to six hours of a slave’s memory. The pills are administered whenever one wishes a slave to forget a particularly unpleasant event. Memories can’t actually be erased, but the pill causes partial amnesia, often leaving the slave disoriented and more compliant than ever. There’s no better way to control an errant slave than by controlling its mind.”

Jared forces himself not to respond to the handler’s casual brutality, both in his explanation and in his use of the dehumanizing pronoun. He’s too busy being terrified that the pill’s going to be used on him.

“Taking one of these pills at assigned times will be part of your training.”

“No. Please. I… please, Sir. You won’t need those. I’ve been obedient, I’ve been—”

“Quiet,” the handler says without raising his voice. “The pills are not meant to punish you, slave. Your body needs to be accustomed to them before you’re sent to your owner.”

“No,” Jared says again, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I won’t take them. I’d rather die.”

“What makes you think you have a choice?” the emotionless voice asks.

Before he knows it, Jared is on his feet and running for the door. His hand closes around the handle and wrenches it open, his surprise that the door is unlocked barely registering under the horribly urgent need to get out of the training room, consequences be damned.

He runs all the way to Morgan’s office, half-collapsing against the door as he bangs his fist against it.

“Jared?” Samantha opens the door, her expression immediately moving from annoyed to concerned as she takes in his appearance. “What’s wrong?”

“Please, I need to… please.” 

“Come here and sit down,” she says, leading him to the sofa. 

Behind her, Morgan gets to his feet. “What’s this about, Jared?”

“I can’t take those pills. Please… I… please don’t make me.” Jared’s voice comes out muffled, his head almost between his knees as he tries to overcome his panic. Back at the compound, he’d seen what those pills did to slaves, how they made them shells of their original selves.

The Morgans don’t say anything. After a minute, Jared raises his head to see them exchanging looks.

“The retcon?” Samantha asks, her low, pleasant voice making Jared feel marginally calmer. Before he knows it, he’s spilling out all his fears, describing his earlier experiences, begging them not to subject him to the inhumane drug, wiping angrily at the tears that he can’t seem to control.

“Jared,” Samantha says when he pauses for breath, putting her arm around his shoulders. “Those people you saw… that must have been horrible for you. But they must have been given a really strong dose. What you’ll receive is extremely mild, and its effects will wear off in a couple of days. You’ll come to no harm.” She glances at her husband. “You have our word.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for forced drugging, references to rape.

Barely twenty minutes after he fled from the training room, Jared is back, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans before pushing the door open.

The masked handler is still sitting behind the desk, looking as though he hasn't moved in the time that Jared has been with the Morgans.

“I…” Jared swallows. “I was asked to… Overlord Morgan asked me to return for the, uh… the treatment.”

The handler gets to his feet, and Jared is again acutely aware that the man has a couple inches on him. He instinctively retreats a step or two, only to bump into someone standing right behind him.

“It’s all right, 421,” Morgan says, not unkindly. “I’ll take it from here.” He puts his hand on Jared’s shoulder, and Jared can’t help but wonder if the gesture is meant to comfort him or keep him from bolting again.

It’s the last thing he’ll remember for a while.

 

—

 

Jared wakes in his room, and the first thing he realizes is that he appears to be sweating buckets.

He must have let out a sound, because the next thing he feels is a wet cloth over his forehead. “Shh. You’re fine.”

“Ross?” Jared tries to sit up, but his arms feel as though they’re made of rubber. He fights back a hysterical laugh as he absurdly remembers the moment in _Harry Potter_ in which Harry wakes to find that he’s lost all the bones in his arm.

“You’re okay,” Ross says again, and it doesn’t occur to Jared at the moment that it’s a bit of a strange thing to say. Ross removes the cloth from Jared’s head, dips it in a basin next to the bed, wrings it out and then wipes Jared’s damp face with it.

“What happened? Why can’t I… I can’t move.”

“You can move. Just not very much,” Ross says, sounding as though he’s trying his best to be as reassuring as possible. “It’s those fucking pills.”

“The… they made me take them?”

“Yeah,” Ross says tightly, the sound barely a syllable. “You won’t remember much.”

“I…” Jared tries desperately to think back to the scene in the training room. “It was Morgan, wasn’t it? He drugged me.”

“He… he had no choice, Jared.” Ross gets to his feet. He looks tired. “I’ll go tell them you're awake. Samantha said to let them know.”

He’s gone before Jared can ask more questions. Having his memory taken is one of the most frightening things that’s ever happened to Jared, but he’s too weak to even muster up the energy to panic. Before he knows it, he’s drifting off again.

 

—

 

The next three days are a blur. Overlord Morgan visits him once, but Jared isn't alert enough to understand what he's saying. Samantha, Genevieve and Ross take turns looking after him, and he even thinks he sees Danneel a couple times. There’s no sign of Jared’s handler, but he knows one thing for sure now, drugged brain or not: Morgan is not his handler. 

“Help me,” he says once, grabbing Ross’s wrist as the other man helps him back into bed after a visit to the toilet. “Please. I need to get out of here.”

Ross sucks in a sharp breath. “Jared, I… where would you go? They’d just capture you again. Maybe send you to a compound this time. Jeff's worked hard to…”

“All he’s done is have me raped and then taken my memories away!” Jared blinks back furious tears.

Ross snatches his arm away like he’s been electrocuted. “Had you raped? Jared, what're you saying? Who… what are you saying?”

“The handler,” Jared says. “He…” He shakes his head, not willing to go into the details. “You know what he did. You… you saw me. After.”

“I… yeah.” Ross sits down next to him. “But he… he only used the tools, right? He didn’t… he didn't hurt you?”

Jared stares at him. “You think it doesn't hurt in any way to be used like a slave? What're _you_ saying? That it wasn't rape because he didn't fuck me himself? Because he used a plastic dick?”

Ross flinches like he’s been slapped. “I… you’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t… I wasn't thinking.”

And then he flees as though the devil himself were after him.


End file.
